A Stranger Visits Brockton Bay
by CharlieBronson
Summary: Brockton Bay is reeling from Leviathan's attack. As Taylor and the Undersiders work to secure the city amidst chaos and violence, a strange man arrives in the city with his own agenda. This story is largely episodic, and chapter one acts as a prologue. Enjoy!
1. Prologue: Brockton Bay Nights

The stink. No one knows about the stink. Sam wrinkled his nose, furrowed his brow, and coughed into his hand. Sewage, swept up through the manholes by Leviathan's tidal wave? Human excrement? The rotting flesh of something too long dead? Its never the first thing you think of. The buildings bisected, drowning the city in rubble and raising dust to block out the sun. That's what the news likes. Vicious gangs patrolling what's left of the streets. The Slaughterhouse Nine. There's the story. But God damn. Stick around long enough and you realize the smell. It was strangely sweet, like someone poured sugar over a pile of vomit. Sam almost gagged. He pulled his shirt up over his nose. It was filthy, but at least it masked the smell.

 _Would they hurry up already?_ Sam looked down the alley. Sandwiched between two small buildings, it was probably filthy even before Leviathan. Now… Sam preferred not to think about it. The moon cast its beams towards the blackness, but they lost courage along the way, illuminating only barely the figures at the end of it.

"Would you guys hurry it up back there?" Sam's voice echoed off the walls, finding its way to the intended target, mingling briefly with the sound of muffled screams and rhythmic thumping.

"Don't talk to me asshole!" Cried the boy fucking the woman in the alley.

"Yeah, you know he can't concentrate if you talk to him." Called Tara. She held the woman's arms and mouth as she struggled, occasionally punching her in the head and saying, "Be quiet!"

They had found the lady some three blocks away, navigating the treacherous terrain with a backpack hanging from her shoulders. When they saw her, the decision was made unanimously, without words. They stole her bag and found mostly food and water. They roughed her up, Sam took a few swings at her face and kicked her ribs after her legs gave out and she lay on the ground, sobbing.

Sam looked down at his feet. He saw a rat skeleton. The bones were scattered but they were all there, picked clean. _If I were face to face with the ground,_ Sam thought, _I'd want a kick in the ribs to distract me from the filth._

Sam hadn't wanted to fuck her. He tried to persuade the others but he was outvoted. He never went in for that sort of thing. Now he stood guard while Tim and Tara went at her. It wasn't the first time.

"I'm going for a walk." They ignored him.

He walked down the road and made a left. He had no direction; he simply chose the path of least resistance. He scanned the environment, but that became boring. He started to whistle but he didn't like the way it sounded in the silence. He looked up at the stars. Much less light pollution without electricity. He squinted his eyes, glaring at the moon. He hated the way it felt like a spotlight, illuminating everything that shouldn't be seen. It made him feel exposed, like a lab creature nailed to a slab.

If he had a watch he would've checked it. Either way, he decided it was time to return. No escaping the smell anyway. As he turned, the sound reached his ears. It started low, then rose, asserting its presence against the oppressive silence. With some amazement, Sam realized it was a human voice. It jumped from syllable to syllable in an unintelligible melody. It was a song, dancing delightfully up and down the musical scale in a language Sam did not recognize. His interest piqued, Sam removed the loaded pistol from his waistband and followed the strange chorus. He climbed over a heap of tangled concrete and rebar, past an abandoned car, someone dead in the backseat. The sound grew louder, and it seemed, as Sam drew closer the voice responded, raising in pitch, launching powerful notes that exploded like grenades in the night air, shattering the silence into a million pieces.

Just as he approached the source the voice stopped. Dead. Sam stopped too. His heartbeat, his breath sliding in and out of his nostrils. They seemed so loud in the sudden quiet that he attempted to stifle them, feeling very conspicuous again. He looked around, almost frantic now. Where was he? Was this a trap? Horrible images ran through Sam's mind, the Slaughterhouse Nine looking for evening entertainment, some rogue parahuman with the ability to fuck him up in every way he could imagine and some ways he couldn't. The gun felt like a chunk of lead in his hand, useless, dragging him down into the grime.

Slowly, carefully, he turned around and made his way back the way he came. He sought the shadows but the moon was brighter than ever. Everywhere he looked, he was met with its cruel, white rays, piercing him like daggers. The silence returned slowly, like a skittish animal after being frightened. Eventually, it reclaimed the air and settled down even heavier than before. It clogged up Sam's eardrums, deafening him. He could feel his heart throwing itself against his ribcage, trying to break free of his chest. He could feel the licks of fire dancing and raving in his lungs. He could feel the concrete slapping his feet. He was running. He didn't remember doing that, but now was too late to stop. He ran, tripped, fell, got up, ran again. He thought he might be lost, until he came upon the pair of buildings that sheltered the darkness of the alley. He stopped. He composed himself. He couldn't appear this way in front of the others. No need to earn himself a reputation as a punk bitch. He shoved the gun back into his waistband and noticed it was damp with sweat. He wiped his palms on the back of his pants and walked calmly up to the alley.

"Hey, are you motherfuckers done yet?" He gave himself a mental pat on the back for sounding so composed.

His friends didn't respond. Instead, the silence answered smugly, as if the air itself were mocking him. He peered down the alley, but couldn't make out the figures of his friends. Every instinct in his body was telling him to turn around and leave.

Sam turned, but he didn't expect it would be that easy. He was right.

"Whom are you talking to?"

The voice rolled deliberately out from the dark, and when it reached Sam it froze the marrow in his bones. It was not the voice of his friends.

Immediately the gun was drawn and aimed. Sam forced the sudden nausea back down. The stink was back with a vengeance.

"Who's back there?" He kept the fear bottled somewhere in his mid torso, allowing none of it into his voice.

Silence again. But then movement, a silhouette emerging from the black ocean. The figure was revealed slowly, every step forward bringing it just further into the light. A pair of feet, then legs, stomach, shoulders, and a face. It was a man. Very tall, easily seven feet. And gaunt, boney joints pushing against skin, as if a skeleton trying to tear through the rind and taste the air. Very pale. From on top its head hung mangled tendrils of hair, black as the inside of Sam's eyelids. On his face, cheekbones stood sharp and hard as stone. His lips were prominent, and very pink. His eyes were as dark as his hair, and under them shadowy circles dented the alabaster skin. A shirt hung loose from his torso. It was black and long sleeved. He also wore jeans over his legs. He was barefoot.

He looked at Sam and smiled. His wide lips stretching the already taut skin back over his cheeks, his eyes crinkling horridly. It was all Sam could do not to drop the gun from trembling hands.

"Hello." The man spoke easily, as if to an old friend.

Sam didn't realize the man had stepped closer to him. He was now merely yards away, stretching out a skeletal limb in some kind of greeting. Sam backed away.

"Don't come any closer. And keep your hands where I can see them."

The man's arm lowered back to his side, where it rested.

"Where are my friends?" Sam demanded.

"Did you hear my song?"

Sam tightened his grip on the gun. "That was you?"

"Of course." His voice was deep and full, in contrast to his appearance.

"What the hell are you doing out here singing anyway?" Sam asked, his eyes stinging from the putrid stench that now swirled about the vicinity. _When did it get this bad?_

The man inhaled through his nostrils, his smile growing slightly wider. He raised an arm and pointed with a finger, pale and grotesquely elongated, at the sky. "Look there."

Sam didn't take his eyes off the man.

"That's the Lyra constellation."

"I don't care."

The man looked genuinely disappointed. He paced into the street, turning slowly to marvel at everything around him.

"How long would a person have to gaze up at the stars in order to perceive the fantastic pictures hidden between the threads of their celestial tapestry?" He mused. A noiseless moment passed. Finally, the man moved over to an overturned food stand swept in from the pier and sat on it, crossing one leg over the other. He appeared as though some art installation, an overly exaggerated vision of the human form.

"Think of everything you're missing." He looked amusingly over at Sam, anticipating an angry retort. He got none, Sam still holding the gun.

The man continued. "We are alive for a reason. The wrath of God himself has blown through this place and yet we persist. Do you know what this means?"

Sam didn't respond.

"It means we have an _opportunity_. A chance to live the way we are intended to. Through fire and destruction the world has been melted down to its essential components and all that remains in truth. When I arrived at this place I found two children raping a woman. When they were done the boy cut her throat. There is truth in that, veracity as old as the stars. Think of your life before. Doesn't it come to you as a dream?

Sam found himself involuntarily thinking. For him, life wasn't so different before Leviathan. Family, friends, comfort, things most people miss when they are deprived. Sam never had them in the first place. Startled, Sam found that the man had stood up and outstretched his hands toward the boy, as if to embrace him.

" You glorious wretch! Look at you now! How wonderful it must be. I envy you."

Sam raised the gun again.

The man smirked, surrounded by an air of confidence despite the firearm.

"You think I want to hurt you. Why would I? You're already complete. All the morals and empathy bled out of you long ago. There's nowhere to go from here. I take no pleasure in people like you."

The man was walking again, over to the alley. He disappeared for a second, re-emerging with two bodies in tow. He tossed them down, revealing the faces of Tara and Tim. Sam wanted to be shocked, he wanted to be angry. But he wasn't. He could have guessed as much when he returned to find his friends gone. He looked at them. They were breathing, but badly hurt, each with bruises and lacerations. Tara was missing an eye. Sam didn't know how the man could have done this, both his friends had weapons and this stranger was skin and bones.

 _He must be a parahuman._

"They weren't so lucky." The man regarded his victims. "They were boring. The only way to find meaning in a boring person is to cut them open and look for it."

He held a knife out towards Sam. It was Tim's. Sam had seen that knife used many times. It would strike fear, make grown men piss themselves before it tore their flesh. Sam looked at its owner. Barley alive. He seemed so pathetic now. Without thinking, he took the knife from the stranger. He stood over Tim.

"Haven't you ever wondered what makes your friends tick?" The man's breath reached Sam's neck, it made the hairs stand up, alert, but not afraid.

Tim met Sam's gaze. Recognition flashed, a moment of consciousness. That was Sam's cue. He bent down, and began cutting.

The stranger stood there, his formidable form between Sam and the moon, casting the boy in shadow. Before long, he began singing; sweet notes swirled through the air, taking pleasure in melting the silence into soft nothing. They were soon joined in form by Tim's screams, each with a humor of its own, and together they danced a splendid waltz through the pale light and the smell of death.


	2. A party, The merchants, A fortune teller

Taylor was apprehensive. Infiltrating a gathering of the merchants wasn't exactly an exercise in stealth, but things were never easy. If there was one thing Taylor had learned since she started going out in costume, it was that no matter how much you plan, shit will always find a way to hit the fan.

A combination of Lisa's tongue and Jaw's fist had gotten them in, but as she looked around, Taylor became increasingly skeptical of their ability to find Bryce. The location of the festivities was an abandoned mall. It was packed to the brim with people who would have undoubtedly been asked to leave had they visited before Leviathan. They were dressed in clothes that hadn't been changed in days, as was evident from the stench. Some outfits were obviously stolen, a woman walked by wearing high heels and a party dress, touched with various stains. A teenage boy had a diamond engagement ring on every finger, most covered in dry blood. A girl clad in a full wedding gown was hefted by the hands of a small crowd and twirled round and round through the air, giggling all the way. Hair clotted and matted to sweaty foreheads, dyed in every hue imaginable. Piercings gleamed; scars stretched and dented skin of every color. Eyes flashed in excitement and terror, teeth greeted in crooked smiles, throats erupted in hysteria releasing laughter and screams. They all moved through the mall like currents through a polluted ocean.

Everywhere there were vendors selling wares. Voices shouted, advertising weapons, ammunition, drugs, people. It seemed the merchants lived up to their name, and in a strange way, the mall retained its purpose.

Panic poked like a needle at the back of Taylor's brain. She had faced murderous psychopaths before, but she had never seen so many people given over to mayhem. She focused on her bugs, making note of concentrations and species. It was calming, and Taylor was able to banish her growing fear.

They began to make their way through the crowd. They didn't make it far before they were accosted by a man with unkempt stubble glued to his face and a manic expression.

"It's a lonely world aint it?" He was speaking to Jaw. "You sir, you look like you could use a special someone in your life. How about purchasing one of our fine ladies or one of our dapper gentlemen?" He indicated a gaggle of women and some men, crowded into a makeshift stall.

"Not interested." Jaw responded gruffly.

The man continued, citing prices for all kinds of drugs, the names of which Taylor didn't recognize.

They elected to ignore him, and soon his attention was pulled in another direction. They made their way to a gap in the crowd and decided to hold a strategy meeting. Taylor produced a picture of Bryce.

"This is the kid we're looking for."

The others studied it briefly, no words or questions.

"I think we should split up." Lisa said.

"Bad idea." Said Minor. This place is already hostile, and its only going to get worse as the night continues."

"That's why we want to get out of here as fast as possible." Lisa retorted. "In this crowd, its unlikely we can find him as one group. If we want any chance of tracking this kid down, we'll have to split up." Lisa looked at Taylor, eyebrows slightly raised.

"I agree." She said with little hesitation. She wasn't exactly thrilled at the idea, but what Tattletale said was true.

Senegal smirked. "Come on Minor, you afraid of these drugged out bums?"

"Shut up." Minor scowled.

"No bickering you two." Lisa cut in. "Brooks, you and Jaw go search the other end of the mall. We'll take this side and meet in the middle. Sound good?"

No one else complained. Brooks and Jaw went off, leaving the four of them.

"Alright gang, now that we've spilt up, time to look for clues." Lisa was wearing her characteristic grin.

 _How does she maintain that attitude even at times like this?_ Taylor knew a lot of it was an act to throw her enemies off, but here it seemed legitimate. Lisa lead the way, flanked by Minor and Senegal. She breezed through the tumultuous crowd with an uncanny confidence. It was nice to have someone like that on her team, Taylor thought. But sometimes, she worried Lisa's attitude would get them into trouble.

Skidmark surveyed the anarchic throng before him. All manner of vagabonds, criminals, and just regular people looking for a way out, a place where they can be predator instead of prey. Skidmark fed off the energy they vented. He had been the one to wrangle them, assemble them into a mass of concentrated carnality. He sat atop them like a king and while they came and went, lived and died, his reputation grew. He recruited more capes, demanded more respect. Leviathan had been the best thing to ever happen to him.

Speaking of capes, where was that new guy? The weirdo who called himself Vrag? He was supposed to be on the stage with Skidmark and his other capes, but at some point he had politely excused himself and disappeared into the crowd. Skidmark almost thought it was a good riddance. The guy gave him the creeps. He wasn't like the countless other people drawn to the merchants. He had just as much fun talking to someone as he did killing or fucking. When he did indulge in violence, he was almost detached, like a child having great fun with an action figure. And when he turned his attention on you, your skin just _crawled._ He was strong though, despite looking like an emaciated stick figure, and he was a valuable addition to the gang. But if he wanted to miss all the fun… Well, no time to wait for that loser. Skidmark grinned. _The show goes on._

"You're that girl! The one who got shoved in the locker at school!"

Taylor was beginning to regret rescuing the girl. They were grouped in an alcove at the perimeter, blocked by rubble on one side and guarded by Minor and Senegal on the other. "You're thinking of the wrong person." She spoke sternly, with a note of finality.

But the girl was persistent. "No, I remember now! You went crazy or something and they sent you to an asylum for like a month."

"Enough!" Without thinking, Taylor's hand shot out and grabbed the front of the girl's sweatshirt, knuckles white. The girl's eyes widened, she gasped and sputtered like a hooked fish.

"I-I'm sorry!" She cried. " I didn't mean- I mean, I wanted to do something-"

"But you didn't." Taylor growled.

The girl searched frantically for an answer. Taylor noticed bugs gathering on the girl's body. She sent them away.

 _Control yourself_ , she thought, _now is not the time._

"Forget it." Taylor released the girl at the same time Brooks and Jaw entered the alcove.

"We found him." Brooks said.

They made their way back into the fray, towards the center of the mall. There was a large hole in the ceiling and underneath it a crowd of people danced to music blaring from an unknown source. Through the hole the night sky peered in solemn curiosity. Passing the crowd, they approached the far end of the mall. The congregation grew thinner, with the exception of a large group gathered near the wall in the direction they were heading.

"He's in there." Jaw spoke seriously.

As they drew closer, a young girl detached from the pack and grabbed Lisa's arm.

"You have to see him." She said. "He'll tell your fortune."

The girl's hands were cold and sweaty and her pupils were dilated. She looked no older than thirteen.

Lisa removed the girl's grip and gave a good natured smile. "Sounds fun."

The girl nodded enthusiastically. They moved into the crowd.

"Do you see him?" Taylor looked up at Minor.

"No." Minor answered, his focus locked on the figure at the center of the crowd.

They pushed further in, and soon, they all caught sight of the "fortune teller".

He sat on a plush leather massage chair, the ones malls just leave out for people to sample. While most people would sink in and be engulfed, he dwarfed the chair, his legs stretching down to the floor, bent knee joints sticking up sharply. He was tall and thin, jet black hair slicked over his scalp, pulling the skin on his forehead back into an expression of perpetual amusement. He had no shoes on his feet. He was draped in an elegant three piece suit and a black bowtie cinched under his chin. The suit conformed perfectly to his body despite his strange stature. He obviously didn't just steal it off the rack.

A man from the crowd approached and sat directly on the fortune teller's lap, like a mall Santa.

"Tell me your name." The fortune teller's voice commanded the atmosphere.

"Brian." The man said eagerly.

"And when were you born Brian?"

"January 28th 1990."

The teller engulfed Brian's head in his massive hands, closed his eyes, and looked up at the ceiling. Some in the crowd also looked up, expecting some fantastical element to make itself know to them. After a moment, the teller opened his eyes and looked directly at Brian. His red lips formed into a smile, like a bloody gash across his face.

"Great wealth is in your future son, if you have the courage to seize it."

Brian looked overjoyed. The teller than leaned in close and whispered something in Brian's ear. Brian listened, and then he turned his head, and looked directly at Taylor. The teller whispered something else. Brian nodded, got up, and disappeared back into the crowd.

"Was he looking at you?" The girl who they had rescued earlier questioned.

Taylor didn't answer. Her body was slightly numb, and she felt a little dizzy. Why did she have the feeling that the man in the chair knew who she was?

"Guys," Minor appeared from the midst of the group. "I found him."

Bryce was with a girl about his age. They were talking. She laughed at something he said.

"Bryce." Taylor called his name as they pushed trough the crowd towards him. He looked at her.

"Who the hell are you?"

"I'm a friend of your sister."

"Yeah right. Fuck off."

Lisa spoke up. "So your sister gets beat up by these scumbags and your response is to join them? Real classy move Brycie."

Bryce scoffed. "They didn't beat up my sister, stop pretending like you know me bitch."

Jaw stepped toward the young couple. Bryce, despite his bravado, backed up a little. His girlfriend looked scared.

"Maybe you should just go with them Bryce." She said nervously.

"Chill babe, I got this."

Before the situation could escalate, the man who claimed to be a fortune teller stood up. Taylor thought she could hear his bones scraping together as he moved. Any idle chatter in the crowd ceased, even Lisa and Coil's men found themselves paying attention.

The fortune teller addressed the crowd, his face unreadable.

"Ladies and gentlemen." He spoke in a normal volume but his voice carried easily to everyone present.

"There are words and there is action. There are lies and there is truth. And now we are at the point where we cannot deny it anymore. Life confronts us. Its hideous eyes reflect our pitiful images, its scalding breath glides down our necks. It is a monster, fueled by the vast incendiary scale of destruction. Can such a beast be tamed? No. To attempt to do so would be an exercise in futility. The first step is to carve, with great passion and prejudice, the grotesque and gratuitous flesh from ourselves. This process of elimination is not pleasant, but it is necessary. Many of you have begun this process, but there is still much ways to go. A volunteer please?"

The crowd erupted into commotion, people crying out for the fortune teller to pick them, some volunteering others. Taylor took this opportunity.

"Bryce, its time to leave, now." She tried to sound threatening.

"Are you still here? I said fuck off, something cool is about to happen."

A young man was the first to break forth and dash to the man's side. The man placed a hand on his shoulder.

"What is your name brave soul?"

"Anthony."

The man looked over at the crowd, his eyes meeting everyone's in turn. When his gaze swept over Taylor, it seemed to linger. Taylor's muscles tightened, bugs drawing near. Again she had to dispel them.

The man turned to face Anthony. "Anthony," He said, "I am going to kill you."

Stunned silence. Anthony laughed nervously, the crowd followed suit. The man smiled, it wasn't a joking smile however, it was sympathetic, like a mother smiles at a child's impossible dreams.

"Of course," the man continued, "you are free to kill me first."

Anthony wasn't smiling anymore. Another second dragged its way across the space between them, then, Anthony drew a knife. Almost lazily, the man reached out and grabbed Anthony's hand. He twisted, the wrist snapped, the knife hit the floor. Anthony shouted, but maintained. He kicked, the man dodged. The crowd cheered and hollered. The tall man lunged and took hold of Anthony. He lifted him up above his head like an offering and brought him down against a jagged kneecap. Then Anthony screamed. His spine. He crawled toward the forest of legs sprouting down from the crowd and connecting to the floor. The man grabbed Anthony's leg and pulled him back.

"Not that way," He said, "There is nothing for you that way."

The man seized Anthony's foot and turned it around, cracking and rearranging bones. Anthony's arms flailed, hit, clawed at the air, the ground. But he couldn't reach the man. A quick pull, and Anthony's foot detached entirely, and now there was blood. It surged forth from Anthony's ankle and slicked the floor. Anthony was screaming and the crowd grew more quiet. The man lifted Anthony and pinned him against his hard boney chest in a bear hug. He snagged the curls of Anthony's hair in his protracted and callous fingers and tore, removing the skin from Anthony's scalp. Now more blood drenched down Anthony's face, painting it a deep dark red. The onlookers were now silent

"Taylor, time to leave." Taylor had been transfixed. She tore her eyes away and saw Lisa's face, eyes wide, freckles most prominent against the skin drained of its color. She grabbed Taylor's hand, and together they ran.

"What about Bryce?" Taylor found her voice again.

"Minor has him." The shakiness in Lisa's voice was almost imperceptible. Almost.

As they ran, Taylor looked back. The crowd was mostly gone, fled the same way she had. That gave her a good view of the man, sitting cross-legged on the floor. Anthony lay in front of him, still. He wasn't screaming anymore. His skull was cracked open, and the mass of tissue that contained his sense of humor, sexuality, fears, hopes, dreams, and memories, was spilling from his head, reluctant and viscous, it made its way onto the floor. There the man sat alone. There he looked up and met Taylor's gaze. There he threw his head back and laughed, rich and boisterous, as Anthony's blood and viscera pooled around him.

Taylor kept running. Somewhere, Skidmark picked up a microphone and started talking, the crowd started cheering, and Taylor kept running.


	3. The Nine, The Man, The Merchants Dead

Coming in off the water, a soft, cool breeze danced and twirled its way through the air above Brockton Bay. Jack Slash could feel it blow through his pores and tousle his hair, flick the hem of his shirt up and down and kiss softly off the sharp features of his face. He smiled. He reached into his pocket and felt the handle of his straight razor, polished wood cool to the touch that housed within it his instrument.

Across the way, that same breeze was swept up and decimated by the rotating blades of a helicopter-like contraption. Squealer's flying machine hovered in the sky above a massive crowd of Merchants amassed in the streets.

"Listen up you bunch of bedsores!" Skidmark howled into a microphone. We got a real fuckin doozie for you this time!" The crowd roared

From the roof Jack listened to the man shout the details of his little game. _Attempting to force trigger events and recruit new members._ Jack inferred the intention of Skidmark's "challenge". _An interesting strategy, though inefficient._

Jack observed another man standing slightly behind skidmark. Towering over the caped villain, this other man watched Skidmark from behind with an expression Jack could not read from this distance. _This must be Vrag,_ Jack thought. _As if calling yourself the Croatian word for 'devil' constituted originality._ Jack however, knew that power is not contained in a name, but in the face behind it.

Skidmark was still talking. Jack thought now was as good a time as any to 'cut' in. He pulled the straight razor from his pocket and was about to flick it when Vrag took a step towards Skidmark. He reached out and placed his great white hands on either side of Skidmark's head, wrapping his snakelike fingers around the man's face.

"Hey!" Skidmark dropped the microphone and swatted at Vrag's hands. They didn't budge. He might as well have backhanded solid steel. Terror struck through Skidmark's gut like a cold knife.

"What are you-"

Skidmark was in the middle of his question when Vrag squeezed. His icy fingers carved through Skidmark's face, cheek and jaw bones cracking and finally shattering against the immense pressure exerted by Vrag's skeletal arms. Skidmark barely had time to scream before his skull imploded, fragments cutting against Vrag's palms as he wrung Skidmark's brain between his fingers like dough. Skidmark was dead in seconds and as his body went limp, Vrag let him fall to the floor of the aircraft in a heap of sodden skin and lifeless limbs. At the controls, Sqealer screamed, the crowd gasped.

Jack witnessed it all from the rooftop, and he couldn't stop the surprise from spreading across his face.

 _Some sort of coup? If it was, then it was executed with truly awful timing. How tragic for poor Vrag. He's seized power for himself, but his taste of leadership is to be cut short._

Jack smiled briskly. He raised his straight razor. Vrag's ambitions come to an end today.

Just then, Vrag raised his head. He looked right at Jack, and although he was far away, Jack thought he saw him smile. Jack didn't like that. So the first thing he did was cut a line through Vrag's lips. Blood sprayed at the sudden intrusion of blade through skin, and Vrag brought a hand up to his face. Next was Vrag's abdomen, sliced diagonally both ways, forming a dripping red x. More blood, soaking through Vrag's shirt. He fell to his knees, and Jack severed both his ears. Vrag fell forward off the aircraft, plummeting down and striking the crowd below.

Jack, satisfied, turned to his team, standing behind him on the roof. His smile was thin like a razor blade as it spread across his face.

"Well, that was admittedly unexpected. But that shouldn't stop us from having our fun."

The breeze returned, stronger this time, urging them off the roof, carrying with it all the joy and promise of the oncoming bloodshed. The Slaughterhouse Nine smiled, and so did Jack.

The man who called himself Vrag also smiled. He stood in a room devoid of furniture; walls bare save for the myriad collections of filth and scars they had received in recent months. This room was on the third floor of a building located on the opposite side of Brockton Bay. There the man stood utterly naked, his ivory body in its entire pale splendor seemed to glow even in the low light. His smile stretched from ear to ear, lighting up his eyes like burning coal. His right hand clenched and unclenched slowly, immeasurable power behind each strained grasp. He caressed his soft lips with his index finger, as if he could still feel the line where Jack's blade had sliced through the tender tissue. These lips parted to reveal a sharp-toothed grin. He chewed on his finger, humming to himself an Italian opera. He bit down harder and harder, until with a snap his fangs severed the tip of his finger. He moved the finger around his mouth, savoring the tangy taste of blood. He kept it in his mouth and it bled slowly, like an ice cube melting, releasing its liquid onto his tongue. When it was cold and dry he swallowed it.

The woman in the corner whimpered. It was the only sound she'd made in hours. The man twisted his serpentine neck toward her. She sat in the fetal position and compressed herself into the wall, as if enough force would cause her to phase through it.

The man stepped over to her, covering the room in two strides. He knelt before her, though even in this position he was still twice her height. He looked at her with black lifeless eyes, glazed over with happiness like a smiling doll. She couldn't look at him, instead she stared past him. Her tears cut thin trails through the grime on her face. She shivered violently despite the warm night air.

The man lifted his hand and traced the stump of his finger across her cheek, leaving a trail of thick blood in its wake. She flinched, but went nowhere, already caught between the walls and the monster that crouched in front of her.

"Now," he said, "This is only the beginning. Now things are going to become very fun."


	4. Jack and The Stranger

Cherish was having a really shitty week. Sometimes she would stop and think about how she had gotten herself into the situation she was currently in. Every time she tried to trace back the origin of her bad luck she realized it must have started when she was born. Yeah. Doomed from the start. Of course, she hadn't improved anything by joining the nine. And trying to double cross them probably hadn't been the best idea either. Now Cherish was, in a word, _fucked._

She chanced a glance over at the man who walked beside her. He stepped foot over foot across the sidewalk with a strange grace, avoiding obstacles with a deftness befitting a much younger man. He wore his simple yet effective shirt and jeans combo, seemingly not bothered by the icy rain that drizzled from the murky sky.

This man was going to kill her. Cherish knew this like she knew the sun would rise and fall, like she knew Crawler smelled like wet dog and Tattletale was an arrogant bitch. Bonesaw was "preparing" a punishment for her. Yeah right. As if that little demon wasn't at his beck and call. They all were. Cherish might not be able to emotionally manipulate her fellow psychopaths, but she could still read them to an extent. And she wasn't stupid. Jack had offered her a second chance, a shot at redemption. But Cherish knew her fate was sealed.

She was used to being the who would strike fear, and she delighted in it, picking apart a person's essence and re-writing it according to her whim. There was nothing else that brought her greater pleasure ( _Dad would be proud)._ There was nothing else she knew how to do.That was why she had joined the nine in the first place.

But now, as she trudged through the concrete mire, she knew Jack had stopped thinking of her as a member of the team. No, he never had in the first place.

If Cherish had the capacity for it, she might have felt despair, even self-pity. Instead, she felt an animal fear, a primal pupil dilating, blood vessel racing horror. She was going to die. She felt the rain fall softly on her skin, cling tenderly to the hairs on her arm and seep through her pores and tingle the nerves beneath. The wet smell of the street swelled sweetly into her nostrils and doused her brain like a burst of cold water. A droplet hung from one of Jack's long greasy hairs and then it fell, hitting skin and racing down the back of his neck to disappear behind the collar of his shirt. Cherish didn't know how she got here, and frankly she didn't care. She knew something now; not _something_ , the _only_ thing: she did not want to die.

"I'm home kiddos!" Jack strutted through the door to the apartment on the second floor. Cherish entered behind him, eyes downcast.

"Daddy!" Bonesaw rushed in from the kitchen and leaped at Jack, who caught her in his arms and embraced her. Her arms were bloodstained from fingertip to elbow and she left red streaks across Jack's back. Shatterbird rolled her eyes and Siberian might have been jealous. Crawler, who had been asleep, raised his head for a moment, then promptly let it fall back to the floor with a thud.

Bonesaw noticed Jack's own hands were dripping red and his shoes were covered with blood.

"Did you run into some meanies on the way home?" She asked, feigning concern.

"As a matter of fact I did have a chance encounter with some officers of the law. They're gone now, but we should consider finding a new place to rest our heads in the near future."

"Aww, but Jonathan was just starting to like it here." Bonesaw indicated a thoroughly dissected body pinned to the dining room table.

Jack raised an eyebrow. "I don't believe I've met a Jonathan."

"Come on, I'll introduce you."

Bonesaw skipped into the dinning room and Jack followed. Cherish made her way to a chair in the corner and sank into it. Her eyes flitted from one member of the nine to another, and when someone returned her gaze, she looked away.

Outside, dark sheets of clouds folded themselves over the moon, blanketing the city in total blackness. A man stood at the entrance to the apartment building. The rain fell harder now, hitting the man's head and hurrying down his body to the safety of the ground below. He stood there for several minutes, stock still like an actor waiting for a cue. His warped silhouette blended in to the darkness around him so he appeared to be an optical illusion, visible only from the corner of one's eye.

Up in the apartment, Bonesaw finished threading the final stich on Jonathan's torso. One of her mechanical spiders applied a cauterizing ray to the wound, and after the smoke and smell of burning flesh dissipated, Jonathan slowly sat up. Bonesaw turned to her teammates.

'He's finished!" She said excitedly.

Shatterbird and Burnscar had dug a game of Scrabble from one of the closets and were playing on the floor. Cherish looked up briefly from her chair, then looked away. Jack was lying down in one of the bedrooms, and Crawler still slept on the floor.

"I know guys, he isn't the most original of my projects, but I have some great ideas of how to make him cooler if I had more parts."

Siberian came over to see Bonesaw's creation, drawing a pleased smile from the small girl.

"Jonathan, say hi to Siberian."

"Hchhhhhh."

Bonesaw furrowed her brow. "I'll have to fix that later."

Just then, there was a polite knock at the door. All heads turned. Burnscar and Shatterbird got up from their game. Crawler was up in an instant, muscles primed like jet engines. Cherish sat up and walked to the center of the room to join the others. Siberian took a subtle sidestep, putting herself between the door and Bonesaw.

Jack stepped out of the bedroom. "Was someone expecting company?" Though there was no fear in his voice, there was also very little humor.

"Cherish?" He fixed his gaze on the newest member of the group, drawing a knife from his belt.

Cherish looked back at him, her features tweaked in trepidation. "I can't-"

The door swung open.

Fire danced in Burnscar's palms, shards of glass swirled around Shatterbird, a mechanical spider sat on the ceiling, ready to pounce.

A man stood in the doorway, hands in his pockets. He wore a long black trench coat that engulfed the entirety of his gaunt, stretched frame. His dark hair was waterlogged, plastered to his forehead. Rivulets ran down his face, skirted the corners of his mouth and collected on his chin. Red veins snaked from the edges of his eyes toward his pupils. His skin was so white, it hurt to look at him.

He grinned. "Hi Slaughterhouse Nine."

Though no one let their guard down, no one attacked him. Jack stepped through his team to the front, facing the stranger. He returned the stranger's grin with a smile of his own, though it never reached past the surface of his face.

"And to whom do I owe the pleasure?"

The stranger reached back and closed the door behind him, the click of the mechanism resounding louder than it should have. He turned back to Jack and shrugged.

"I grow weary of names. I've never been able to keep one for more than a few weeks."

"How tragic." Jack said with a hint of sarcasm. "Supposing we fast forward the formalities, how did you find us?"

"I followed the blood." He spoke as if he needed no further explanation.

"And why are you here? Although we are much more hospitable than our reputation would insinuate, we also don't take kindly to unannounced visits. And I hate to be the bearer of bad news but you should be dead. The last and coincidently, first time I met you I carved you into pieces and watched you die."

The Slaughterhouse Nine stood in limbo, waiting for a response. Seven of the most powerful and cruel parahumans on the planet were huddled together in a single room, watching the stranger.

The stranger took a moment. He glanced at each member of the Nine, and when his vision passed Cherish, he smiled. He turned this same smile on Jack and said,

"Jack, you are perfect. When it comes to human beings, you are in a league all your own. So when I found out you were here in Brockton Bay, I knew I had to see you. And here I am."

"Ah, an admirer. I'm flattered. But unfortunately I have some more bad news for you. The Slaughterhouse Nine is not anyone's to admire. To be hated, yes, and to be feared; but admired, it feels almost…condescending."

"Disrespectful." Shatterbird chimed in, the glass around her subtly vibrating with her voice.

"Yes, disrespectful." Jack nodded towards Shatterbird. "But don't mistake me for a sensitive man; I assure you, my pride remains intact. In fact, you are quite interesting Mr. No Name. I'm sure Bonesaw would love to unravel your mysteries piece by piece." Jack paused for effect. "And what ever healing abilities you may have, I'm sure our dear Crawler and Siberian would love a challenge."

More spiders crept slowly towards the stranger, on walls, floor, and ceiling. Crawler cracked open his maw and let some acid drip down to the floorboards, eating through them in seconds. Siberian took a step forward, silent and inscrutable. Jack was grinning now, and he spun a small blade between his fingers playfully.

As the Nine bore down on him, the stranger laughed. He shut his eyes and threw his head back and laughed. It was genuine, not afraid, not maniacal, but smooth and mirthful, good-natured as if Jack was an old friend with a funny joke. The Nine paused. The stranger looked at them with lips stretched and eyes crinkled in amusement.

"Jack," He hooked a finger in the bottom of his eye socket and dragged down, scraping away layers of skin and flesh all the way down his sunken cheek. His left eye, no longer supported entirely by nerves and muscle, hung ajar from its socket.

"You haven't let me finish speaking." He said as if it was all just a misunderstanding. "I said you were perfect, but I don't admire you. To be truthful I find you impossibly boring."

"Boring?" Jack was genuinely surprised. Of all the things he had been accused of, being boring was never one of them.

"Yes, boring." The stranger walked over to an empty window frame, through which the wind and the rain fell into the apartment. "For who is it that finds enterprise in perfection? You Jack, are complete. Finished. Whatever happened to you, I had no hand in it, and now it is too late. You are the way you are and that's the way you're going to be forever. That way and not some other way."

Jack Slash was almost at a loss for a response. He couldn't remember the last time anyone had faced him with such confidence. This man wasn't listed in any website detailing Brockton Bay capes, and Jack had heard no mention of him from any of the locals. And looking at him now, Jack was getting a frustrating lack of insights and observations.

Jack spoke up, "If you're finished then-"

"Actually I'm not finished. There is one part of your group that interests me." He was looking directly at Cherish now. Inside, the cold hand of fear gripped her heart.

"Our dear own Cherie Vasil?" Jack raised his eyebrows in amusement.

Cherish contracted herself, hunching her shoulders at the attention.

"Cherie Vasil." The stranger spoke her name in an utterance reserved only for that which is truly splendid. "Yes, Cherie Vasil is what I want."

"Why?" Jack spoke curtly.

"She…" The stranger plucked the loose eyeball from its socket and crushed it in the palm of his hand. "…is beautiful."

He looked at Cherish lovingly, one eye brimming with affection, the other an empty socket streaming blood down half of his face.

Now Jack laughed, he clutched his stomach and doubled over.

Bonesaw giggled. "Tall guy likes Cherie! Tall guy likes Cherie!"

Jack raised himself up finally and saw that the man hadn't changed his expression. Jack was about to respond when his throat was suddenly opened from the front. Soft flesh parted seemingly of its own accord and Jack shouted in surprise and pain. After that, things happened very quickly. Fire and glass flew at the stranger but he wasn't there. Swift as a viper, he darted past Jack and grabbed Cherish, wrapping a skeletal limb around her waist and lifting her off her feet. She screamed and cursed. One of Bonesaw's spiders leapt at the stranger but he swatted it away, losing a few fingers in the process. Without another word or glance, he dove headfirst out the open window, Cherish in arm.

Aisha's lungs hurt. She had been sprinting and leaping like an Olympian through the streets for the past ten minutes. Finally, she came to a stop. Wet air shoved its way in and out of her throat as she tore her mask off and panted against a wall.

 _Bad idea._ She thought. _Really bad idea._

She'd had to try. Even if that weirdo in the trench coat had thrown a wrench in everything, she couldn't walk away from the opportunity to _kill_ Jack Slash. She felt a sharp pain in her arm. A small gash just below her shoulder ran red down to her fingers. One of Shatterbird's shards. She was lucky that was her only injury. She clutched the wound and continued to catch her breath.

 _Who the fuck was that? What power did he have? Did he know I was there, that I would attack Jack? What would he have done if I hadn't?_

Aisha pushed herself off the wall and started walking back to her territory. _Wait till the gang gets a load of this._


	5. Cherish, Beginning of The End

Cherish thought her life couldn't get any worse. She thought that right up until the creepy skeleton guy grabbed her and jumped out a window. The next thing she thought was: _At least I'll die quick, its better than Bonesaw anyway._ But she didn't die. The skeleton guy somersaulted in mid air and landed on his feet like a gymnast. Then he took off. Cherish didn't know what to do. She had a knife for combat situations but she couldn't reach it with the way he was holding her. She couldn't sense his emotions and she couldn't change them. She had only one recourse.

"Put me down motherfucker!" She kicked and squirmed in his iron grip but he didn't budge, didn't slow down, and didn't respond. Cherish reached out with her power. The city was sparsely populated considering the recent disaster, but Cherish still had to drown out thousands of emotional imprints to concentrate on the direction they were heading. Five people huddled in a basement six blocks to the east. They were arguing, one was angry with the other about- No. It didn't matter. A group of four was walking their direction just two blocks west. The man passed them and they fell further behind. If they maintained their current trajectory, and if Cherish could keep herself alive long enough, maybe they could be of some use. Beside that there weren't many people around, they were heading into a neighborhood that had been hit hard. The man's feet tore through pools of water in their path. He jumped over a burst pipe and landed smoothly.

After a few minutes he slowed down. He stopped in front of a staircase leading underground.

"This place will do." He put her down, setting her unsteadily on her feet. He kept his hands on her shoulders, and though he didn't squeeze, she knew he could rip her apart if he wanted to. He tilted his head and smiled kindly.

"Please don't run."

 _As if I could outrun you._ Cherish stood there and suddenly she was exhausted. All the terror that had been building up in her throughout the past few weeks came flooding out in a wave of relief that turned her limbs to jelly. She was away from the nine. She was no longer under Jack's thumb. All she wanted to do now was sleep or cry or laugh or scream. Instead she breathed deeply, it felt like solid lead had been in her lungs and she was releasing it with every breath. The man walked down the stairs and she could see him lifting chunks of rubble and tossing them aside, clearing a massive door set in concrete. It was then that Cherish realized where she was. An endbringer shelter. The door was already ajar, and the man pushed it open enough to enter comfortably. He looked up at her and smiled like a schoolboy on a first date. The moon reflecting off his teeth made Cherish wince. He gestured for her to enter the shelter.

"First can you tell me who you are?" Cherish tried to be as polite as possible. If she could figure out what he wanted with her, maybe she could talk her way out of getting raped and murdered.

"We'll talk inside." His smile never faded.

Cherish reluctantly made her way down the stairs. As she walked through the threshold, she looked back. Stars blinked brilliant against the black sheet, framed by the rectangle of the underground entrance, and as the man stepped out to silhouette against the sky, Cherish wondered if it was the last time she would see it again.

The shelter had multiple levels to it, though most of the lower ones were underwater. Several sections connected by metal catwalks hovered over a pitch-black pond, so still it looked like one could stand on it.

"Please walk this way."

The man's voice slipped right into Cherish's ear from over her shoulder. She almost jumped out of her skin. Instead, she shivered violently. She walked forward across the catwalk, the man right behind her. As they grew farther from the door, the darkness overtook them, and soon Cherish was operating by touch alone.

"You're doing well." The words emanated from the darkness behind her.

Cherish's next footfall hit concrete instead of steel. The railings fell off on either side and Cherish was in a void. She walked forward, moving her hands around in front of her.

"This way." The man put a delicate hand on her back and guided her to the left. Cherish remembered a documentary she saw once, when she was still living with heartbreaker. It was about the food industry or something, and there was one part of the documentary when the crew went to a slaughterhouse. It was supposed to make the slaughterhouse look inhumane, the way the innocent animals were killed and processed. But Cherish had thought it was kind of nice. The animals died fast and they were always calm before they were killed. That was important, that they were calm. Easier to kill, and some people say the meat tastes better if the animal isn't stressed out when it dies. Once, when she was four, she walked in on heartbreaker fucking one of his wives. She knew it was something that happened a lot, but she had never seen it. She knew she wasn't supposed to. She didn't run, she didn't say anything. It would only make dad angrier. He walked up to her fully naked and knelt down. She didn't notice she was crying until a tear fell from her chin. She wiped some snot from her nose and sniffled.

"I'm s-sorry."

Nikos Vasil looked at her.

The woman in bed was clutching the sheet to her collarbone with wide eyes.

"Nicky baby," she purred. "She didn't mean to-"

"Shut up."

She shut up. Nikos looked Cherish in the eye. She hid her face in her sleeve.

"Look at me." She peeked her eyes past her arm, her shirtsleeve stained with tears.

"You're sorry?" She nodded.

"You're going to be more careful in the future?" She nodded again.

"Good." He smiled faintly. Cherish sobbed.

Nikos stood up and said, "Alright now, enough of that." Cherish suddenly felt much better. The weight in her stomach and the burning behind her eyes were replaced with a warm sense of contentment. She stopped crying.

Nikos turned to the woman. "She one of yours?" The woman shook her head. Then Nikos remembered, Cherie's mother had died fighting off the heroes in Toronto. Sex made him forgetful like that. He looked down at Cherish.

"Alright now get out of here." Cherish scampered off. Nikos watched her go. "She's a good kid." He turned back to the woman. "Now," he said, crawling back into bed. "Where were we?"

Now whenever Cherish used her power on people, she always made them calm before they did her bidding. Easier that way.

The man guided her to a cot. "Just sit down right here." He walked off somewhere and she could hear him rummaging around in a container. The cot was uncomfortable and damp. Cherish's mind was racing.

 _Ok, he obviously has some very powerful self-healing ability. Jack totally eviscerated him at the merchant's rally and he still came back. He also scooped out his own eyeball back at the apartment. He's trying to intimidate, show how invincible he is. He also has enhanced strength and speed. Physical combat is out of the question. He clearly wants something with me, which should keep me alive for the time being. Jack killed him slowly, avoiding vital organs. And his little stunt at the apartment wasn't exactly fatal. Maybe if I can strike just once at his heart…_

The man began whistling "Singin in The Rain". Cherish heard a few clanging nosies and then the room they were in lit up with a warm glow. The man returned holding an electric lamp.

"Let the stormy clouds chase, everyone from the place, come on with the rain, there's a smile on my face."

He set the lamp on the floor and sat down beside it, crossing his spindly legs. His trench coat fanned out on the floor behind him and Cherish could see he was shirtless underneath. He twined his fingers and rested his boney chin on them and tilted his eyes up at Cherish and smiled warmly. His eye had grown back in its socket, but instead of the dark gray it had been before this new one was bright red. It glistened in his face like a ruby in the snow.

"That was some stunt you pulled with the nine back there." Cherish tried to sound admirative.

"That stunt wasn't my doing, a happy little accident, nothing more."

"Well," she said. "Now that we're inside, can I ask you who you are?"

His smile grew wider. "In time. I'm more interested in who you are Cherie Vasil."

She shrugged. "You know my name, you know my power. There's not much else to know."

"I don't know your power. Please describe it."

Cherish feigned shock. "Oh. I thought everyone in this town knew my power, considering who I was with."

"I don't much keep with current events."

"I control and sense emotions."

"Oh!" His eyes lit up like a kid on Christmas.

"Yeah. It's pretty cool. If you're within twenty feet of me I can make you feel anything I want."

"Twenty feet huh?"

"Yep." It was natural for the man to question this, he wasn't an idiot. But Cherish knew she was an excellent liar.

"Can you control me right now?"

"No." _You know I can't, obnoxious prick._

"Ah." The man drummed his fingers on his leg; it made a sound like teeth hitting teeth. After a brief silence he said, "Cherie Vasil. Your father must be heartbreaker then."

"Yes."

"And that would make you…"

What did he want, her life story? "I'm one of the heartbroken."

He lifted his chin from its perch on his sharp knuckles. "Oh yes, the heartbroken. Such a romantic name for such wretched creatures."

Cherish put a hand on her knee and squeezed.

"Awwww." The man cooed. "You're just too perfect." He reached out and placed a hand on her leg. Cherish sensed the group of four people she had felt earlier. They weren't scared. They were laughing, joking. There was excitement. Gang members on the hunt. They were still headed this way. In just a little while they would be in her range. The man ran his fingers over her leg and drew his hand back, but she caught his wrist. He could have wrenched it from her grasp but he didn't.

"Did you mean it when you said I was beautiful?" She looked into his eyes.

He looked right back. "Every word."

Cherish smiled faintly and looked down, pretending to be embarrassed. _So you don't keep up on current events huh? Well you're going to regret it when you find out what I can really do._

He pulled his wrist away. "Stand up." He commanded.

Cherish stood.

"Lift up your shirt."

"What?"

"Are you pretending to be deaf?"

Cherish tried to act like she wasn't taken aback. "Wouldn't you rather I do this?"

She reached down to her jeans and undid the button. She started unzipping them slowly. The man's arm shot out in a white blur and he seized her ankle from where he sat on the floor. His fingers squeezed enough to ache and make her ankle joint sweat.

"No." He spoke calmly, looking up at her. He ascended, and towered over her. He seemed to have grown taller since the apartment.

"I don't want that. I want you to take off your shirt."

Cherish complied. She had to resist the urge to wrap her arms around herself. Grotesque tattoos and some permanent scars courtesy of Mannequin.

"Dear Lord." The man nearly gasped. He reached down and felt the surface of her skin, the entire torso made into a revolting depiction of body horror. Wherever his fingers moved they stung like ice cubes. He felt her scars.

"You lovely specimen." His grin was full of sharp teeth. Cherish looked away. He continued feeling her, like a sculptor sensing his clay. He shed the coat to the floor and his pale elongated body emboldened the light of the timid lamp. He circled her slowly, taking in every angle. His hands combed through her hair and kneaded her scalp. Down her neck, pausing on the indent where her throat met her collarbone. Further down, past her shoulders, over her breasts and stomach, he dug his nails into her ribcage, drawing blood. She winced.

Cherish was out of words to say. But luckily, the gangsters were passing right above the shelter, and she felt sweet beautiful control for the first time in what felt like a while.

First, the calm. Excitement gave way to apathy gave way to cold determination. Then, desire. Desire to enter the endbringer shelter. Desire to be very quiet. They knew her, they had heard of her in the news. She made them love her. Not romantic, but passionate. They would do anything to protect her.

The man stopped circling her. He stood in front of her now. The four boys were at the door. She hoped at least one of them had a gun. With the light from the lamp, they had a clear shot across the catwalk. They were still in shadow. She made them hate the tall creepy perverted man who stood before her. She made them hate him as much as she did.

A drop of water fell from the ceiling and hit the pool below with a _plink_ that broke the silence like a canon. The man opened his mouth to speak, but never got the chance. A bullet exploded from a gun thirty yards away and struck him in the back, tearing through flesh and lodging in a lung. Not a second later did Cherish lunge at him with her knife and drive it into his chest, right above where his heart should be. His foot lashed out and smashed the lamp, and the darkness rushed in and blinded them. More gunshots rang out, and Cherish hit the floor. She listened. Shots fired, hit concrete and metal. Then screams tore through the air, ringing throughout the shelter. There were thumps, cracks, and the splash of liquid and then silence. Cherish gripped the knife, covered in blood. The goons were dead, as for the man… It was suddenly very quiet again. She got up. Held the knife at the ready. She stood a long time. She finally decided to try and make it to the exit.

When he spoke from the darkness she nearly shit herself.

"You wanted to know who I am."

The voice was not five feet away. She ran in its direction. _He must be injured. Now is my best chance to-_ a pale white arm, long as one of her legs reached out of the black and grabbed her knife hand, stopping it dead. Another hand gripped the knife by the blade and flung it away into the water with a deafening splash. Cherish tried to break free and run, but it was hopeless. Both hands wrapped around her and gathered her into a spiny body slick with blood and held her in a crushing embrace.

"I like people." His hot breath cascaded down onto her face. "I like it when they bleed and cry and scream and moan and break. I like what they think they know and I like showing them what really is. I don't have a name. I don't need one." He plucked her off her feet and clutched her against his chest. He raked his claws down her back, leaving wet red lines in his wake. She screamed in pain. He laughed and tossed her down hard to the ground. He convulsed and doubled over, howling in laughter that shook the shelter's foundations. She got up and tried to run again but he grabbed her leg and dragged her toward a corner.

"Come here. I want to see you." He grabbed another lamp and lit it. She looked up at a man easily eight feet tall, blood drenched from head to waist. His one gray eye stood out on his face like a marble floating in a paint bucket. His hair matted to his forehead in thick viscera. Maniacal fangs tore a sick hole in his lower face and a pink tongue licked viscous red from warm lips.

"Mmmm, you are my new project." He grabbed her hair by the root and dragged her to her feet. He pinched her entire face between two disgusting stick fingers. "You're so precious. You're so broken, but not yet complete. You still have that sweet fear, like an animal, oh its so exciting!" He bared his fangs in her face and breathed through his teeth. The way the light caught his face from below, in its blood coated skin, made him look like some kind of devil. Cherish flinched. She had hoped, for a moment, that she might make it. That she might be free after so long lived in fear. Stupid. Her fault for hoping.

The man smacked her across the face with an open palm. " Don't go giving up on me yet girl. Remember who you are." His expression suddenly shifted back to sympathetic, almost parental. "You're not a monster, are you Cherie? No, you're a victim. A sweet precious victim who plays the bad guy because she's scared. There are real monsters in this world, and I despise them all. They are ignorant, all but Jack. No one sees the beauty, the sheer transcendence of it all. You are a person Cherie Vasil, but I will take that away from you. That is my power. I love you, and you will learn to love me. To me your scars, your tattoos are beautiful. Your cold childlike gaze is exquisite, it elevates my very soul. I assure you, no one else on this earth cares for you the way I do. I believe I'm the only one who cares at all what happens to you. You're so very alone. But don't despair Cherie, empathy is overrated. Those who seek it are fools and I drain their blood for fun."

The man wrapped his hands around Cherish's throat and squeezed, forcing the girl to cough and sputter and try to wrench his hands away.

"Tell me you love me."

Cherish choked and gagged violently.

"Tell me you love me _Cherish_." He spat her name like an insult.

"I- _cough-I love-cough-_ you."

"And I you my dear. Come now." He hoisted her up and carried her over his shoulder across the catwalk, bringing the lamp along with him. She gasped air through a bruised esophagus and sputtered saliva down his back. He set her down next to the mangled corpses of the goons. She landed in a pile of intestines still warm from their previous owner.

"I find its best to eat them fresh." He said jovially. "Sustenance for the soul." He held a limp corpse by the arm and sank his teeth into the young man's tricep, tearing flesh away from bone, chewing and swallowing.

"So you commandeered these poor children in order to kill me? Very resourceful. " He took Cherish by the back of the head and forced her face down into the tangle of skin, bones, blood, and guts. "See them now for what they really are: _meat_. Nothing but organic matter. They exist to be molded, their original form doesn't suit them. They are much better this way, don't you agree?"

Cherish could barely breathe, couldn't see past the dismembered anatomy that surrounded her.

"That wasn't a rhetorical question Cherie."

"Yes."

You agree?"

"Yes I agree!"

The man violently wrenched her head back but maintained his grip. Cherish spit coagulated blood from her mouth. He man stood up.

"Come with me." He said.

The man walked out of the shelter, Cherish followed. They were outside, and the man looked upward at the stars.

"What do you see?"

"The sky."

"What do you see in the sky?"

"Stars."

"Precisely. And what do you see in the stars?"

Cherish wanted to be wary, she wanted to be on edge. But she couldn't muster the energy. Whatever happened happened.

"I see constellations."

"Of course! You're absolutely right! Aren't they beautiful?"

"Not really."

"Silly girl, open your eyes. Do you know how long a star lives?"

"Is this going to be on the test?"

"On average a star lives for ten billion years. The most beautiful things are so fleeting." He gave Cherish a chance to respond. She didn't. "The beauty of a star however pales in comparison to that of a human life." The man lunged at Cherish and gripped the soft flesh of her throat between his teeth. Before she could utter a sound he twisted his neck, tearing away the majority of her throat and the arteries contained therein. She fell in a heap, kicked, twitched, and then was still.

The man tilted his head back and let the wet lump of flesh slide sickly down into his stomach. He looked down at Cherish as she lay still on the sidewalk, her blood fleeing the wound in a large pool, mingling with the filthy water that stagnated there on the ground.

He sighed. "So fleeting."


End file.
